uss. Honour! The honour that made a fuss, and claimed
its rights! And Shelton smiled. "As if man's honour suffered when he's
injured!" And slowly he walked along the echoing, empty street to his
room at the Bishop's Head. Next morning he received the following wire:

Thirty miles left eighteen hours heel bad but going
strong CROCKER

He passed a fortnight at the Bishop's Head, waiting for the end of his
probation, and the end seemed long in coming. To be so near Antonia, and
as far as if he lived upon another planet, was worse than ever. Each day
he took a sculling skiff, and pulled down to near Holm Oaks, on the
chance of her being on the river; but the house was two miles off, and
the chance but slender. She never came. After spending the afternoons
like this he would return, pulling hard against the stream, with a queer
feeling of relief, dine heartily, and fall a-dreaming over his cigar.
Each morning he awoke in an excited mood, devoured his letter if he had
one, and sat down to write to her. These letters of his were the most
amazing portion of that fortnight. They were remarkable for failing to
express any single one of his real thoughts, but they were full of
sentiments which were not what he was truly feeling; and when he set
himself to analyse, he had such moments of delirium that he was scared,
and shocked, and quite unable to write anything. He made the discovery
that no two human beings ever tell each other what they really feel,
except, perhaps, in situations with which he could not connect Antonia's
ice-blue eyes and brilliant smile. All the world was too engaged in
planning decency.

Absorbed by longings, he but vaguely realised the turmoil of
Commemoration, which had gathered its hundreds for their annual cure of
salmon mayonnaise and cheap champagne. In preparation for his visit to
Holm Oaks he shaved his beard and had some clothes sent down from London.
With them was forwarded a letter from Ferrand, which ran as follows:

IMPERIAL PEACOCK HOTEL, FOLKESTONE,

June 20.
MY DEAR SIR,

Forgive me for not having written to you before, but I have been so
bothered that I have felt no taste for writing; when I have the time,
I have some curious stories to tell you. Once again I have
encountered that demon of misfortune which dogs my footsteps. Being
occupied all day and nearly all night upon business which brings me a
heap of worries and next to no profit,